


the sands of your hair, the shores of your shoulders

by vanilla_alia (ashheaps)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 01:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashheaps/pseuds/vanilla_alia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>for <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/we_are_cities/20044.html#cutid1">dec 23 06</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sands of your hair, the shores of your shoulders

**Author's Note:**

> more and more cryptic as it descends. isn't that how it always works?

(for )

After browsing through fifty channels without finding anything appealing to watch, Patrick flicked the power button in frustration. Pete, for all his concessions, opted only for cable; no extensive channels devoted to each genre of music. With boredom seeping into his skin, Patrick adjusted his hat slowly, deliberately. He craned his head to rest on the back of the couch, rolling it around on his shoulders with a few boney cracks.

Pete entered noisily, bare feet sticking to the wood floor with the warmth from his soles. Patrick stretched in his direction. Pete laid his head in Patrick’s lap without saying a word. Automatically, Patrick carded his fingers through the dark head of hair. His glance traveled down his familiar body.

“I’ve never seen you wear that shirt before,” Patrick observed in the silence. Pete didn’t even look down, just closed his eyes and pressed his head harder into Patrick’s thigh. Patrick added, almost as an afterthought “And are those new jeans?”

“No,” Pete said shortly, “I’ve had these forever.” 

“It’s the steroids, isn’t it?” Pete opened his eyes in defeat, wordless, a small nod and a deeper inhale than exhale. “You don’t look much different. In fact, you look fine. I promise.” Patrick continued to finger Pete’s hair slowly.

“I just, I don’t like either,” Pete conceded after their long silence.

“Either what?” Patrick prompted.

“Either option. My back or-” he stopped there.

“Pete, it’s going to be okay. Your body and everything, it’ll right itself.” And that was all Patrick could think to say. Pete breathed deep.

“It’s just, being hurt, physically. I thought the anxiety was worse than broken bones. But the Xanax and now the steroids and I’ve never felt so out of control, Patrick. It’s so scary not knowing what’s happening inside.”

“Hey,” Patrick cut him off before Pete could tangle himself anymore, “slow down. Just, slow.” They made eye contact. Patrick’s sparkled while Pete’s wavered.

+

Pete had the ordinary brand-name run-of-the-mill medications that any prepared mother would stock beside the Band-Aid boxes (Dora the Explorer and Neutral Waterproof being Pete’s preferred versions—which originally drove Patrick to searching the medicine cabinet in Pete’s LA home, all for the hangnail he pulled too far down his finger). 

The bottom shelf was reserved for orange-tinted medicine tubes with white caps. The bottles housed tiny ovals and oblongs. Each cap touched shoulder-to-shoulder in the line up. But the printed instructional labels were taped over, each baring a different handwritten keyword. One said “family doctor, never again.” Another, “not worth the sleep.” The one that piqued Patrick’s interest bore a simple smiling face on the plain white paper taped around the curves. He worked around the safety and twisted off the cap, revealing tiny diamond-shaped blue pills, Pfizer imprinted on the side. Patrick shook one out and into his palm then slipped it into his pocket. He forgot about it until he was back in Pete’s guestroom late that night and ended up shoving it in the plastic bag that protected the contact lenses he never wore.

+

On Sunday, Patrick wakes up terribly early for no apparent reason. Try as he might, sleep does not come again. He pokes around the house, lets Hemingway out then in then out once again. The dog stretches in the dew grass outside and Patrick presses his forehead to the glass of the French doors. He leaves a greasy trail that’s almost invisible. Almost.

He ends up sitting at the edge of Pete’s bed and Pete must think he is Hemingway, because, when he kicks at Patrick’s thighs while switching from his left side to his right, he mumbles “C’mere, bud.” 

Or maybe Pete doesn’t mistake him for anyone else. But Patrick still leaves to search for breakfast.

+

On the plane ride home to Chicago, Patrick is blessed with a window seat. They’re flying over land, but Patrick draws anchors on his beverage napkin. The etchings spill onto his own flesh and, by the time they come to collect his empty cup, there are tiny curved anchor shapes all over the back of his hand. The four letters that prompted their appearance are scratched meticulously across his knuckles. "pete." Against the sandy grey color of the tray table, they nearly look like they’ve been there forever.

+

_What Patrick didn’t tell you was..._

_\- - - On Saturday, after a moment of insight (the breath in between the crash of waves and the inhale of the tide), Patrick fisted a handful of dual-tone plastic capsules and tossed them angrily on the floor of Pete’s bathroom. He squeezed some too hard and the gel broke through the thin caplet. It spread across his palms. And he couldn’t help but think that Pete had begun to swim farther and farther away from him.- - -_

_...that Pete found him in a sea of tears floating on the bathroom tiles, the alien liquid still heavy in his palm. He kneeled and touched everywhere he could see. What he couldn’t touch was just what mattered the most. Patrick croaked a siren song into Pete's shoulder._


End file.
